


All is Calm

by HugeAlienPie



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985), The West Wing
Genre: Christmas Party, Crossover, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marbury's implication slams into Brian like a slow-moving freight train. Josh. And John. Together. With an open bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All is Calm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/gifts), [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts).



> Happy birthday to Perpetual Motion (belated) and the_wordbutler (early). And a joyous Chanusticemaszaa, one and all!

Brian isn't panicking. _Yet_.

No one remembers having seen John in the last twenty minutes. But no one remembers seeing him leave, so he has to still be at the party somewhere. Right? He wouldn't leave without Brian. Right? Brian can put away those panicked visions of John wandering drunk into the snowy D.C. evening without his coat and passing out in the British embassy's abandoned courtyard, _right_?

Brian banks around the corner and collides with a Douglas fir, towering, majestic, and pointy. He waves piney needles and Christmas baubles away from his face, spluttering, and glances around to make sure no one saw. The situation is _very_ reminiscent of the Brian Johnson of old, the one who barely knew John Bender and would _never_ have been elected to _anything_ , let alone the Illinois General Assembly. He hasn't missed that Brian.

Brian backs away from the tree and into a soft, fabricy mass that can only be another human being. And when something pours onto his back, he amends that to _another human being holding a drink, which I have now spilled on myself and probably them_. From now on, he'll stick to family holiday parties and not try to schmooze important people over eggnog and Christmas carols. He's an atheist, anyway.

Brian turns, apology on his lips, and his heart sinks. "I'm _so_ sorry, Ambassador," he says. He grabs what looks like a cloth napkin from a nearby table and blots it over the wet spot spreading across the tie of the man in front of him. Then he looks down and realizes that what he took for a napkin is actually a holiday-themed table runner that one of Marbury's Elizabethan ancestors probably hand-embroidered.

Ambassador Marbury laughs richly but not meanly. "It'll be fine," he says. "God knows I have more ties than my neck could ever wear."

"Still," Brian says. He dashes to the bar and sweet-talks the bartender into a glass of club soda. Marbury looks almost fond as Brian dabs furiously at his tie. Once he's done all he can without being a total creep, he smiles sheepishly. "Better?" he asks.

Marbury looks at the tie and nods. "Now, then," he says, clapping his hands together, "What are you looking for?"

Brian frowns. "Looking for?"

Marbury waves at the Christmas tree. "Before your run-in with this majestic specimen of Yuletide cheer, you were clearly searching for something. I, also, have misplaced something rather important. Perhaps we could look together?"

Brian sighs. There's no point trying to lie to Marbury. "Actually, it's John. That I've lost."

Marbury stares at him for a long moment. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose and looks heavenward. "That man," he mutters, and Brian's fairly certain he doesn't mean John.

Plastering on a smile that may or may not be real (usually Brian can tell with smiles, but this one's tricky), the ambassador slings an arm around Brian's shoulders and steers him toward the back of the ballroom. "My dear Representative Johnson," he says jovially, "what a stunning coincidence. You see, when I say I've misplaced something rather important, I mean that no one has seen my husband in half an hour."

Marbury's implication slams into Brian like a slow-moving freight train. Josh. And John. Together. With an open bar.

The four of them have kept up something of an acquaintanceship since they met at President Santos' Flag Day ceremony. Brian's been to D.C. a number of times for meetings of the president's cybercrimes task force—mostly alone, but once or twice with John in tow—and Marbury took (or invented) an opportunity to come to Chicago to open a special exhibit of British royal portraits at the Art Institute. They've become friends, after a fashion, but it's the combination of John and Josh that continues to grow closer—and more nerve-wracking—at every turn.

Marbury pats Brian's shoulder. "Do you need to sit?"

Wait. Josh _lives here_. He doesn't need the bar; he has unfettered access to the embassy's liquor supplies and . . . god knows what else. Brian has a sudden and hysterical vision of John using the Treaty of Paris as a rolling paper. "No," he says grimly, "I need to resolve this as quickly as possible."

Marbury nods his understanding, and they cut through the party crowd. He leads them through a door at the back of the room that Brian hadn't noticed on his first, frenzied pass—a door that seems designed to go unnoticed. Marbury nods at the security guards on both sides of the door and stays close so there's no question that Brian's with him.

Marbury pauses, considering which direction to take. He cocks his head, rolls his eyes, and turns right, leading them, if Brian's sense of direction is to be trusted, deeper into the building.

Marbury relaxes more the further they get from the party. Brian's not sure if that's because they're presumably moving toward John and Josh, or if the ambassador's not as enthusiastic about these enormous to-dos as he makes out. "I'm delighted you both could make it," Marbury says, breaking Brian from his reverie. "I wasn't aware Mr. Bender was traveling with you."

"He usually doesn't," Brian says. "He says the devils he knows in Springfield are better than the ones in D.C. But Alfino called me in for an emergency meeting yesterday—"

"There was a cybercrime emergency three days before Christmas?"

Brians shrugs. "Alfino's drunk on power. He's the brand new head of the task force, and I can't help noticing that my presence is needed 180 percent more often than before he took over."

"180 percent?" Marbury echoes, eyebrows raised.

Brian blushes. "I like to be . . . precise. Anyway, John refused to stay at home without me for Christmas. So here we are."

"Well, then, Congressman Alfino's powerlust is our gain, because Josh and I are always glad to see you."

"Even when my husband's corrupting yours?"

Marbury's laugh is filled with genuine mirth. "Oh, Representative," he says, "what makes you think _your_ husband's doing the corrupting?"

"His rap sheet?" Brian blurts before he thinks about it.

Marbury winks. "You should see Josh's FBI file."

Around a turn in the corridor—and Brian is _so grateful_ to be walking with Marbury, because he's hopelessly lost—Brian hears voices, several low, murmuring female ones spiked by a loud, sharp, male one. Marbury's expression tightens, and he increases his speed. Brian keeps pace, trying not to let a sense of doom overwhelm him.

"—and I _will not_ work under these conditions!" the male voice shrills as they descend a ramp toward what Brian belatedly realizes is the embassy kitchen.

"Then you won't work here," replies a female voice, calm, measured, and _dripping_ with disdain. Brian's startled to note than he no longer really registers the British accents of the embassy staff. "Chef McCoy, please see Chef Norris out. Make sure we have his address on file so we can send him his final check."

"Right away," replies a second female voice.

" _What_?!?" the man shrieks.

"Chef Norris," the first woman says sharply, "Mr. Lyman is Lord Marbury's husband. He lives here. All the time. If you can't handle him on a night like tonight, when he's in a good mood, then God help you when he's had a bad day—and in this town, they're almost all bad days."

There's a brief scuffle and the sound of a pissed-off sous chef being herded out of the kitchen. Brian chances a glance at Marbury; his expression is a strange mix of relieved and aggrieved. He pushes forward into the kitchen, dodging a server bearing a perilously full tray of hors d'oeuvres. Brian hangs back until he realizes the doorway is the most dangerous place to be, and then he scuttles after Marbury.

"Melisande!" Marbury calls as he approaches a sharp-faced woman in her mid-40s with short black hair and flashing gray eyes.

"No," she says shortly and turns to deliver instructions to a young woman Brian assumes is Chef McCoy, returning from handing Chef Norris his walking papers. She looks back at Marbury, gaze sharp. "You're still here."

"Melisande—"

"Your Lordship," she says testily, "I have the greatest respect for you and Mr. Lyman. However, I have just lost a talented sous chef in the middle of our busiest party of the year because of Mr. Lyman and his friend." Brian and Marbury both sigh at the confirmation that John and Josh are off together making trouble. "I won't have my kitchen further disrupted."

"We don't wish to disrupt you," Marbury says, holding up his hands. "We're merely wondering if you know where they went."

She shakes her head. "Once they left the kitchen, they were no longer my concern. Ms. Frank might have a better idea."

Marbury gives a bright grin that terrifies Brian. "Excellent. Come along, Brian; we're on their trail now!" He turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen, leading a helpless Brian, who can do nothing but follow, back the way they'd come. "Ms. Frank is second-in-command in the household staff," Marbury tells him. "And at this point, I believe she secretly runs everything. If anyone knows the whereabouts of our wayward spouses, it is she."

Halfway back to the ballroom, a door to their left opens. A short, infinitely competent-looking woman in a dark green dress with a _dizzyingly_ plunging neckline appears in the hall in front of them. She pauses. "Good evening, Ambassador Marbury," she says.

"My dear Ms. Frank!" Marbury sweeps forward and bends showily over her hand, kissing it with a loud smack. "You and your bosoms are radiant as always."

Brian chokes, but Ms. Frank doesn't blink. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Your Lordship. But only because you're gay and not skeevy about it."

"Really?" Brian asks before he can stop himself.

Ms. Frank offers him a knowing half-smile. "Not _very_ skeevy. I trust you're enjoying the party, Representative?" Brian isn't surprised that she knows who he is. Assistants and household staffs know _everything_.

Marbury tucks the woman's hand into the crook of his arm. "Every detail is exquisite as always. And things would be _even better_ if we knew the whereabouts of our dear but vexing husbands."

Ms. Frank laughs. "Yes, he can be quite a challenge, can't he?" She tilts her head and considers Brian. "Yours as well, Representative." She smiles and gestures at the door she came through. "They're in here," she says. "They're in fine spirits. And don't let them fool you: they aren't nearly as drunk as they're acting." She nods at Marbury and then turns and continues toward the ballroom. Brian groans.

"Ah," Marbury says, delighted, " _La Bibliothèque Bordeaux_." He looks at Brian, who's trying to figure out if there's any irony in his claiming that their husbands are in a room called "the burgundy library." If there is, he can't find it. "Shall we see the mess they've gotten themselves into?"

Brian doesn't want to, but he sees little in the way of other options. If they leave John and Josh alone, there's no telling what trouble they'll make. He motions for Marbury to lead the way.

He's not sure what he's expecting La Bibliothèque Bordeaux to be. They're on the main floor, so it's probably a room where the masters of the house bring important guests. It's not in the real living area that starts on the second floor. So he's not anticipating personal touches. Maybe those faux personal touches he's come to expect in offices in both Springfield and D.C.—the kind you send your personal assistant to buy that _look_ like prized personal possessions but only serve to aggravate the cleaning crew. And at first glance, the room has that general air to it. Then he looks at the bookshelves (burgundy, unsurprisingly, as is the carpet, only a large blue and cream rug and a semicircle of cream-colored armchairs saving the room from a numbing monochromaticity) and revises his opinion.

Instead of row upon row of boring British military histories or biographies of the peerage, the shelves of La Bibliothèque Bordeaux are filled with well-worn novels. Brian's eyes can't read all the spines anymore, but what he can see suggests that everything's shelved with a gleeful disregard for genre or alphabet. What looks suspiciously like a first-edition _Gulliver's Travels_ rubs covers with a trade paperback of L.A. Banks' _Bad Blood_ ; _Delta of Venus_ cozies up to _Anne of Green Gables._ Brian's fingers twitch to impose order.

Two of the soft-looking leather armchairs currently play host to Brian and Marbury's no longer missing husbands. Their sprawled slouches make Brian's spine twinge, and their knees jab each other periodically, like boys on a playground poking each other with sticks, while they argue about . . . well, Brian has no idea what they're arguing about, because he would swear Josh just said, "Sauerkraut is black magic," and John replied, "But you can't live off iguana for three years," and frankly Brian doesn't want to know.

"Gentlemen!" Marbury says as he strides into the room, alert and flirtatious and giving _no_ indication that less than five minutes ago he was on the verge of tearing down his own house in search of these two idiots.

Josh looks up. John, sitting with his back to the door, looks up and back. "John!" Josh shouts.

"What?" John says, turning to look at him.

"No, not you-John," Josh says, ramming his knee into John's. "Me-John."

"No, you Josh," John replies.

"Who's on first!" Josh yells, and they dissolve into hysterical chuckles.

"It's no good," Marbury says. "We've talked with Ms. Frank. We know you're sober."

"Aw, dammit," Josh mutters. He sits up and scrubs his hand over his face. "Worth a shot."

Marbury and Brian move further into the room. Now that he can see more of John and Josh's set-up, he sees a pile of books on the floor between their feet. He scans the titles, which start with _On the Beach, The Handmaid's Tale,_ and _The Hunger Games._ Suddenly, a conversation about sauerkraut and iguana seems plausible.

Marbury perches on the arm of Josh's chair. Brian, less certain of his balance than his knees, settles onto the ottoman next to John's chair. John grabs Brian's hand, lacing their fingers together. It's an odd gesture; John's not given to public displays of affection, and the _speed_ of the action suggests an insecurity they mostly left behind in Shermer. Brian looks at John, trying to read his expression, but John keeps his gaze fixed on their hands. Brian purses his lips. He's suspected there was _something_ going on—for all his . . . _Benderness,_ John would've needed a _very_ good reason to abandon a party he'd been at for less than an hour—but this feels like a bigger issue. A deeper hurt.

"Well, then," Marbury says. His joviality isn't false or forced, but it feels _studied_ , like it's perfectly calibrated to defuse the situation. "While I appreciate you skulking around my library dissecting my choices in dystopian and post-apocalyptic literature, we _are_ in the middle of a party."

"Yeah." Josh blows out a sharp breath and leans his head against Marbury's side. "There was . . . an incident."

"An _asshole_ ," John corrects him.

Marbury bristles. "Regardless of their behavior, Mr. Bender, it is still our duty—"

"Excuse me, Little Lord Fauntleroy," John snaps back, "but you weren't there. You didn't talk to the asshole."

Marbury presses his lips together. Josh lays his hand on Marbury's knee. "It was Lackland." Colin Lackland, Brian thinks they mean, the ironically named secretary of agriculture.

Marbury relaxes and offers John a wan smile. "My apologies, Mr. Bender. 'Asshole' is a most accurate descriptor in this instance. Please, go on."

Josh shrugs. "He was being himself. The usual shit."

Unfamiliar with Lackland or his usual shit, Brian looks up at his husband. "John?"

John looks across the room, out the window at the snowflakes falling gently on a D.C. night. "Everybody started pulling out pictures of their kids, bragging about them. Lackland, too, but—" He rubs the corners of his eyes under his glasses. "He had this _look_ , and this _tone_ , when he talked about them. It was 'Harvard' and 'Gage Whitney Pace' rather than 'arrest record' and 'good-for-nothing bum,' but it was how the old man used to talk about me."

 _Oh, God._ Jack Bender's ten years in the ground, but his poisonous influence continues to hover around John like a malevolent ghost. Brian leans forward and rests his forehead against John's, gripping his hand and _being with_ him until his breathing matches Brian's and his shoulders relax. He smiles weakly and tilts his head enough to give Brian a tiny kiss before leaning back and making a failed attempt at regaining his habitual insouciance. It doesn't take more than a brief glance to see he's shaking.

" _And then,_ " Josh says, and Brian jerks. How much worse can this get? "Senator Birken pulled out her daughter's wedding picture."

Brian flinches. He's met Senator Birken and has seen that wedding picture. The senator's daughter and her partner had the first same-sex wedding in D.C. after SCOTUS finally declared all bans on same-sex marriage unconstitutional. It had been a symbolic and political wedding on the front steps of the Supreme Court building less than an hour after the ruling, because Birken pulled strings to have everyone on standby to converge the _instant_ the ruling was handed down.

"And Lackland, I imagine, was his usual charming self?" Marbury asks.

Josh rolls his eyes. "It lacked his usual bombast, but he made it clear that he didn't consider that a real marriage, no matter what the law said."

For a second Brian's surprised Birken would even bring it up around Lackland, who's been shockingly outspoken in his views against same-sex marriage for a man whose job has _absolutely nothing_ to do with the issue. But he imagines herself in the senator's position and realizes—she'd thought she was _safe_. Standing around that ballroom, surrounded by soft music and trees that look like they were decorated by actual North Pole elves, she wasn't thinking she was Senator Birken talking to Secretary Lackland. She thought she was Elaine talking to Colin, one parent to another at a holiday party. Lackland's violation of that safe space angers Brian as much as his bigoted statements.

Marbury's face is turning a terrifying shade of purple. Brian's grandfather used to turn that color. Brian's grandfather had a lot of heart attacks before he died. "He said that in _our house_?"

"John," Josh murmurs, touching Marbury's knee.

"No, Joshua," he says tersely, and though he closes his hand over the one Josh is resting on his knee, his fingers twitch, like they'd rather be punching Colin Lackland's nose. "He is a guest in _our house_ , insulting _our marriage_ —"

"Someone else's marriage, technically," John says, and Brian can't decide if he's trying to defuse the situation or stir it up further.

" _And yours_ ," Marbury snaps. John sinks into his chair. Marbury pulls his phone from his pocket and rage-smashes the screen to connect a call. "Ms. Frank," he says brusquely, "make a note that Colin Lackland is to receive _no_ further invitations to _any_ events we host. . . . No, no need to evict him now, just—yes. Yes, exactly. Thank you." He looks at Josh and grins. "Also, please consult the schedules for after the New Year and invite Senator Birken to dinner. Dr. Birken and Isabelle and Sophia, as well . . . Something like that, yes. Thank you, Ms. Frank, that will be all." He disconnects the call and looks at his husband, whose eyes are rolling so hard Brian's afraid he's going to hurt himself. "What?"

"You are an absurd human being," Josh says before stretching up toward him.

Marbury takes the hint and meets him halfway for a kiss. "My darling Joshua," he says, "that's at least half of the reason you married me." He leans back. "And what happened to Chef Norris? Melisande is unlikely to forgive you for that for quite some time."

Josh looks at the carpet, a bit sheepish, but John rolls his eyes. "It was like he'd never _met_ an American before. We're jerks. It's what we do best."

"Nothing happened," Josh insists, glaring at John.

"If a dude can't sneak a friend out of his own party and raid the pantry, it's a crap party, Your Ascotship," John says loftily. Josh laughs so hard it turns into a violent coughing fit. "We weren't even in the part of the kitchen the guy was using."

Marbury raises an eyebrow at Josh. Josh shrugs and says, "This is what we get for letting Bertrand vet kitchen staff instead of Melisande."

Marbury nods and looks around. "Gentlemen," he says, smiling wickedly. He opens a drawer in one of the end tables and pulls out two decks of cards and a case of poker chips. "Can I interest anyone in a game?"

John looks from Marbury to Josh. "Don't you two need to hobnob with the bigdicks?"

Josh chokes but shakes his head. "Free alcohol is flowing; tiny hors d'ouvres are circulating. Most of the guests won't notice we're gone."

"And between Ms. Frank's magnificent breasts and Bertrand's suspiciously chiseled jawline," Marbury adds, "the rest will remain adequately distracted."

"I'm in," John says. Brian shrugs and nods.

"Wait." Josh holds up a hand as Marbury starts distributing chips. "Before I commit myself, I need to know if you two are any good."

"Brainiac counts cards," John offers. Josh's jaw drops; Brian can't tell if he's surprised by the allegation that the upright Representative Johnson cheats or the cheerful baldness of John's betrayal.

Brian smiles and keeps dividing his chips. "I have to, dear," he says. "You're the best damned bluffer alive."

"I'm in!" Josh says, sweeping his chips into a messy pile in front of him.

"Josh is a career political operative," Marbury says. "Claiming someone else bullshits better than he does is akin to insulting the size and function of his genitalia."

"I'd have to see it first," John says. The ambiguity of his referent is so _obviously_ deliberate it hurts.

Brian swallows a laugh at the looks on Josh and Marbury's faces. "John Bender doesn't play poker," he says. "He militarizes it."

As Marbury laughs and shuffles, John turns suddenly earnest. "Sorry if we worried you, taking off without saying anything."

Josh nods. "We had to get away from . . . from everything."

Brian squeezes John's hand and smiles at Josh. "It wasn't a problem. We worried about you, but we figured you had to be in the building somewhere, so we were fine."

"Brian walked into a Christmas tree," Marbury offers.

The laughter around the table is warm and bright and startled. It's the only sound in the room, a gift after the chaos of the party. Brian gives Marbury a glare for show. "Who's side are you on?"

"His own," Josh says.

Brian's glare intensifies. "Bring it, Your Lordship," he says, packing as much derision into the title as he can. From the way John snorts a laugh, it's not much.

They fall into the rhythm of deal, bet, and call. There's the inevitable trash-talking, but the room is quieter than Brian might've expected from four guys whose jobs rely a lot on talking. But it's what they need to soothe the sting of the Colin Lacklands and Chef Norrises of the world. Eventually, someone _will_ take offense to the hosts skiving off, and the ruthlessly efficient Ms. Frank will come to fetch them. Until then, as snow blankets the world outside with a reverent hush, the four of them sink into their oasis of silence and play into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/) counts cards


End file.
